


The Nearest Kin of Gods

by mornen



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Family, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-11-11
Updated: 2011-11-11
Packaged: 2019-01-31 23:14:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12692187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mornen/pseuds/mornen
Summary: I wrote this when I was sixteen. The writing reflects that.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this when I was sixteen. The writing reflects that.

The road stretches out before them, cramped with rumbling cars that flash in the sunlight and make the ground beneath them tremble. Smoke billows up behind them and rests heavily on the cold air, making them cough through the scratchy scarves they wear high over their faces. The air is bitingly cold, and the strong wind cuts at Maitimo’s eyes as he hurries along the cracked side walk, Findekáno pressed tightly against him for warmth. Findekáno’s thin body feels lost in the great blue coat that Maitimo wrapped securely about him before they set out. He turns to look up at Maitimo, his large grey-blue eyes brimming with tears drawn out by the cold and the dirt. 'Maitimo,' he says, his voice muffled by his scarf and the infernal din of the traffic. 'I'm freezing.'

  
'I know,' Maitimo whispers through the ridiculous fuzzy purple hat he wears low over his ears, 'but that is just the way it is here.'

  
Maitimo holds Findekáno closer now, letting him lean his head against his shoulder, and circles his arms around him and shoves his bare hands deep into Findekáno’s pockets, a luxury his own coat lacks. Their hands meet in the semi-warmth of the woollen folds and clasp tightly in defiance of the winter.

  
The buildings about them are slowly changing from the scattered colours of painted wooden and vinyl sidings to a solid block of dusty brick. Old, dead vines cling to their sides and the wind whips at them frantically, howling at their eaves. The sinking sun shines on the bricks, turning them a warm gold, and bare trees cast twisted, dancing shadows with their searching branches.

  
'What store are we looking for?' Findekáno mumbles against Maitimo’s shoulder when they stop at a corner under an unlit street lamp, leaning for a moment against its green metal post.

  
'The health food store,' he says, 'we need yeast.'

 

* * *

  
The store is a warm refuge after the December evening. Maitimo closes his eyes for a moment and breathes in the warmth along with the scents of spices and baked goods. Pulling his scarf off his face and rubbing his cheek where it still itches, he looks around for the yeast. He has not been here before, and the neat rows of goods and large, abstract paintings hanging on the white walls seem very daunting.

  
'It should be with the refrigerated items,' says Findekáno briskly, taking his hand. He has adjusted to this world better than Maitimo has, but perhaps that is because he is younger.

  
Maitimo follows him to the refrigerated isle and shivers, half with cold, half with disappointment after the lovely warmth.

  
'Should we get the small bag or the large one?' his cousin asks him, holding the door cruelly open.

  
'The large one,' he says, 'our families eat a lot of bread.'

  
Findekáno picks up the one-pound bag and closes the door gently. 'Is there anything else that we need?'

  
'Father said that he needed cinnamon,' Maitimo answers, ducking under a low hanging sign on his way to the bulk spices. Findekáno trails easily after him, tossing the bag of yeast up and down casually. Maitimo has long enjoyed teasing him about his height (he doesn't even reach Maitimo’s nose) but here he has the advantage. Findekáno stands by Maitimo’s side as he asks the wrinkled woman behind the counter for the cinnamon, searching the names of the spices with curiosity. The woman hands him a small plastic bag of the fragrant spice, and he thanks her quickly. She gives a curt nod and turns away.

  
'Is that all that we need?' asks Findekáno, heading towards the checkout.

  
'I think so.'

  
They stand in line behind a woman in a green coat who is talking to the cashier about a particular cheese she is purchasing. Maitimo passes the time reading the labels on the chocolates placed carefully so that hungry, tired customers will have to stare at them and wonder about the rich, sweet or bitter bars that lie underneath the coloured wrappers. Findekáno's gaze meets his, and he frowns sadly. Maitimo sighs and gives him a small smile as the woman in green collects her bags and heads out to the harsh winter day.

  
'Chilly day, isn't it?' says the cashier cheerfully, picking up the two bags Findekáno sets down on the counter.

  
'It be freezing,' Findekáno informs her, and she chuckles as she glances out the front window to where the wind is buffeting the pedestrians and trying to rip the clothes off their bodies.

  
She continues to chuckle as she checks the bags and punches the prices onto the cash register.

  
Findekáno fumbles with his wallet when she tells him the price, and she looks up towards the ceiling, almost as if she is embarrassed to watch him handle money. He hands her a bill, smoothing it briefly between his fingers before she takes it and begins to count out his change. He tucks the wallet back into his front pocket and rubs the denim over it as she places the plastic bags into a paper bag.

  
She hands him the bag with an amiable smile, and he takes it with a nod.

  
'Have a good day!' she calls to them before turning her attention to her next customer. They step out into the biting evening.

 

* * *

  
'Do you have the yeast?' Anairë asks the moment they step through the battered front door of the two-story house their three families share.

  
'I have it right here,' Findekáno says, pulling the bag out and handing it to her before even taking his coat off.

  
'Thank-you, dear,' she says, taking it from him. Her face clouds with a frown. 'Findekáno, your hands are freezing!' she exclaims, shoving the bag under her arm and taking his hands between her slim fingers.

  
'It's cold out, Mum,' he says, kissing her cheek.

  
'You should wear gloves when it gets this cold,' she scolds gently; 'that is what they are for.'

  
'I forgot,' he says with an embarrassed smile.

  
'Ah, you forgot.' She rolls her eyes, and her gaze falls on Maitimo. 'I suppose you forgot too?'

  
'I gave my gloves to Pityo,' he tells her whilst he hangs up his coat amidst the sea of coats dominating the entranceway. 'He lost his at school.'

  
She takes his hands in hers and rubs them tenderly. 'We will have to buy another pair. It is much too cold to run about without proper clothing.'

  
He nods his agreement, and she shakes her head in concern before gliding away towards the kitchen.

  
Findekáno turns from hanging his outer clothes up and shoves the bag at Maitimo. 'Your cinnamon, my friend,' he says, and Maitimo takes it from him and follow Anairë into the kitchen.

  
His uncle Ñolofinwë is bending over the open oven where a large roast is cooking. The pungent scent encircles the room, and Maitimo stops for a moment to close his eyes and take a deep breath of it. The kitchen is bustling with activity, and Arafinwë nearly slams into him with an armload of plates.

  
'Pardon me,' he says, somehow managing to peck his cheek as he slides around him and out into the dining room.

  
'It is entirely my…' Maitimo begins, but does not bother to finish since he has already disappeared.

  
With care Maitimo crosses the wide, light boards of the wooden floor and puts the cinnamon away into the spice cabinet fastened securely to one of the pale orange walls.

  
'Gracious, Kano, be careful with that!' Ñolo calls, and Maitimo turns to see his brother balancing an exceptionally large tea kettle on the edge of the counter.

  
He shoves it onto a pot holder and wipes the dark strands of hair falling over his face back with a swift hand. Ñolo touches his shoulders from behind, and Makalaurë turns to him with a grateful smile.

  
'Maitimo, come here a moment.' It is his mother, and he walks quickly over to her where she stands beside the kitchen table with his aunts, preparing the bread. Ambarto is pressed tightly against her side, his red hair tied back in a loose braid. She strokes his head as she speaks to Maitimo. 'Would you go check on Arakáno? He is upstairs in his room; Anairë left him sleeping, but he has probably woken up by now, and we don't want him coming down those steep stairs all by himself.'

  
'Yes, Mother, of course,' he answers with a quick bow.

  
She smiles at him and briefly strokes his shoulder.

  
'Thank-you, Maitimo,' Anairë says almost guiltily, and Eärwen beams at him, her sea green eyes shining. Her silver hair is pinned up messily on the top of her head, and a long streak of flour runs down her right cheek.

  
'Ah, but he loves to care for Arakáno,' Eärwen says knowingly.

  
'That I do,' Maitimo answers.


	2. Chapter 2

Maitimo stops by the living room to see if Findekáno want to join him in his visit, but he is pinned to the sofa by Aikanáro.

'I utterly hate and despise school,' Aikanáro is telling him firmly, his eyes flashing dangerously.

'Whatever for?' Findekáno asks, running his hand through the boy's short hair, and Aikanáro licks his lips thoughtfully.

'Because they all hate me there,' he decides, burying his face against Findekáno's neck, trying to push the blue turtleneck down with his nose.

'They can't all hate you,' Findekáno reasons, sounding very fatherly and kind.

'They do,' Aikanáro insists.

'How could they?'

'They do!' He shoves his face hard against Findekáno’s neck with a very determined grunt.

Findekáno looks up at Maitimo hopelessly, and Maitimo shrugs his pity and heads back to the hall.

The stairwell is dark already, and, as usual, the hall light is not working. Maitimo makes his way carefully up the steep steps and creeps down the narrow hallway. It is eerily quiet, but he can make out the scratches of pencils on paper. His younger relatives are quite busy with their homework.

Ñolofinwë and Anairë's room is at the end of the hall, right across from Arafinwë and Eärwen's room. The door is closed, and he turns the knob carefully. The hinges squeak loudly as he pushes the door open.

Maitimo waits a moment before saying anything, looking around their room with interest. It is not often that he comes here, and the room smells musty in a strangely inviting way. It is very small, and their bed takes up most of it. It is a simple iron-framed bed with a dark blue coverlet, wrinkled terribly. Their clothes are kept in a bulky dresser painted a faded, peeling white that is shoved against a windowless wall. The rest of the room is empty except for the stacks of books and papers that march along the bottom of the left wall. The bluish light of a street lamp lights the room, casting strange shadows through the lace curtains onto the creamy, floral walls.

'Arakáno?' Maitimo whispers, taking a step forward.

'Yes?' comes the answer.

Maitimo sits down on the edge of the bed and looks down at Arakáno, who is curled up in the middle of it, the blankets clutched in his tiny fists and tucked under his chin.

'Have you been sleeping?'

'Yes.' He yawns. 'I had a wonderful dream.'

'What was it?' Maitimo asks, lying down beside him and looking into his huge dark grey eyes.

'I dreamt that we were back in Aman,' he says, edging up to Maitimo and pressing his nose against his.

'What was it like?' Maitimo ask him, twisting his fingers through his hair.

Arakáno blinks at Maitimo and a shy smile spreads over his face. 'It was beautiful.'

'It was.'

Arakáno was born here. In the first tumultuous months after their arrival to this strange world, Anairë delivered him under the light of the quivering stars. He has not seen the light of Aman, but still he says always that he dreams of it. Maitimo wonder if he does, and if he can even begin to imagine the beauty and splendour of their lost home.

A hand touches Maitimo’s shoulder, and he looks up to see Makalaurë bending over them. Makalaurë sinks down next to them and slides his arms around Maitimo’s neck from behind, his lips whispering quiet notes into his hair. He smells like ink and almonds, and his breath is warm and tickles Maitimo’s ear.

Maitimo rubs his arm gently, and Makalaurë draws closer to him, looking down at Arakáno over his shoulder.

'Hey, baby,' he sings softly.

Arakáno draws the blankets up to his nose and flutters his lashes at them.

Makalaurë and Maitimo break into laughter together. Makalaurë’s laugh is deep and musical, rolling like the playful waves that break, sparkling, on the white shore. Maitimo’s is higher and rises in sweeps like leaves dancing on a forgetful wind. Arakáno joins them, his giggles quick and uncertain; he watches them to see if he should be laughing.

Maitimo pushes Makalaurë away from him gently and gathers Arakáno up into his arms. Makalaurë kisses him tenderly, and he curls up comfortably against Maitimo’s chest. Makalaurë laughs again and turns to making the bed.

Maitimo carries Arakáno into the bathroom so that he can use the little plastic potty that Anairë got him. When he is done, Maitimo lifts him up to the sink to wash his hands.

The moment they get downstairs, Arakáno wriggles away from Maitimo and scurries off to the kitchen to see his parents. Maitimo steps into the living room to see if Findekáno has freed himself from Aikanáro yet.

Aikanáro is no longer in the room, and Findekáno is reading a history book to himself, his eyebrows scrunched in concentration as he taps his finger thoughtfully against his teeth. Beside him on the sofa sits Artanis, who is scratching at the collar of the fuzzy white jumper she has on. Beside her sits Tyelkormo, who is carefully filing his nails and muttering something about the bitterness of life.

Maitimo plops down onto the lumpy armchair his entire family seems to have chosen as their arch enemy and glares menacingly down at the little faded blue flowers intertwined so merrily with stained yellow roses. Since that doesn’t fix the chair, he stops and looks at the clock, wondering if dinner will ever be ready. It is 6:00 p.m., and he is very hungry.

Findaráto is sitting across from Maitimo in the recliner, the most coveted chair in the house. His copper hair sticks out like a flame against the dark blue fabric, and he gives Maitimo a slight smile as he adjusts uncomfortably on his seat. Maitimo gives him a quick glare, and he looks innocently back down at the magazine he is holding.

Ambarussa climbs suddenly onto the armrest of Maitimo’s chair and drops mischievously onto his lap.

'It is an evil Ambarussa,' he says in a low, supposedly threatening voice before unceremoniously attacking Maitimo’s neck with harmless bites, growling fitfully the whole time.

'Not now, Ambarussa,' Maitimo groans, holding the wriggling boy away from him. 'I do not feel like wrestling.'

Ambarussa pouts and tosses his head indignantly, widening his eyes pleadingly.

Maitimo kisses him gently and puts him down. 'Why do you not play with Tyelkormo?'

Tyelkormo looks up with a sigh. 'I can't. I am too depressed.'

'What happened?' asks Artanis, looking up at him with great interest.

'It's none of your business,' Tyelkormo scowls.

Artanis looks very hurt and disappointed. 'I only wanted to help.'

'It is something you would not understand,' Tyelkormo says and turns back to his nails angrily.

With a sigh, Maitimo lifts Ambarussa back onto his lap and cuddles him gently, drawing him up into his arms like a little baby. Ambarussa looks up at Maitimo hopefully, and he nods his consent. Ambarussa’s eyes light up, and he attacks Maitimo’s neck with renewed vigour. Maitimo tackles him back, twisting him up and tickling his feet so he shrieks with laughter.

'The evil Ambarussa is no match for the evil Nelyo!' Maitimo cries, standing up and swinging him upside down by the legs.

Artanis looks over at them with great interest and excitement, and Maitimo knows that she wishes she were the one being swung. Ambarussa is practically screaming with laughter, and Maitimo grins as he snatches him back into his arms and nibbles on his toes.

Findekáno closes his book and stands up, nodding towards the doorway.

Maitimo turns to look.

Artaher is standing there, smiling at them in bewilderment. 'Dinner is ready,' he says quietly.

Maitimo gives Ambarussa one last nip on the ear before they make their way into the dining room, which is crowded as it normally is and echoes with the clamour of the three families.

'What happened, Turko?' Maitimo asks Tyelkormo as they wait in line for Arafinwë to ladle them their meal.

He looks at Maitimo as if he would rather not speak about it, but shrugs and says, 'It's…well…I…' He breaks off and looks down at his feet. 'Why do you want to know?'

'Turko, I'm your brother. I do not want you to be upset about something, and telling someone will help.'

Tyelkormo looks over at Artanis who is taking a roll from the basket her mother is holding and trying not to look like a conniving, little eavesdropper.

'I'll tell you after dinner,' he says.

Maitimo takes his food and moves to the table, cramming Findekáno, Makalaurë, and himself onto two wooden chairs that wobble at the same time in conflicting directions. The roast is perfectly spiced, and drips with aromatic oil and curling golden onions that catch the light like amber where they lie softly over the browned potatoes.

Maitimo lifts a forkful to his lips and blows on it just as his father sits down at the table across from Findekáno, drawing Curufinwë up onto his lap.

Fëanáro’s hair is caught back in a tight braid, but a few black strands have worked their way free and are falling across his sharp face in a tangle that he blows at with impatience, shifting Curufinwë in his arms. Curufinwë turns around and smooths them into place gently.

'There you go, Father,' he says.

Maitimo did not often sit on his father's lap when he was Curufinwë’s age, but Curufinwë insists on it, clinging to Fëanáro as if his very life depended on it. He also has the excuse that there are not enough chairs for all of them.

Curufinwë picks up his glass of milk and takes a long sip of it, watching Maitimo deviously from over the rim.

Fëanáro’s sharp eyes watch Ñolofinwë, who is fidgeting on his seat, Irissë held fast in his strong arms. She twists around unexpectedly to look up at him, and he momentarily loses his natural poise and spills some milk onto the table. With a critical raise of his eyebrows, Fëanáro leans over gracefully and dabs at the spill with his napkin. Ñolofinwë's cheeks burn as he mutters his thanks.

 

* * *

 

Dinner is over, and Makalaurë is trying to find away to get up without knocking them all over. Of course, it is futile, and he, Findekáno, and Maitiom are forced to stand up together. Unfortunately, their timing is a little off, and their two chairs fall over, clattering noisily as they hit the floor. Fëanáro gives them a rather chiding look, and Ñolofinwë hides his amusement behind his napkin. Maitimo quickly bends down and pulls them back up, straightening them precisely and trying to look as if nothing of the sort had ever happened.

Makalaurë ducks away into the kitchen and soon returns with a platter of frosted almond cookies. He sets them on the table, and Maitimo snatches up a couple and his empty milk glass and nods towards Tyelkormo.

With a sigh, Tyelkormo gets up and follows Maitimo into the kitchen, where he refills his glass.

'Do you want some?' Maitimo asks, offering him the jug, but he shakes his head, looking down at the floor as he shifts from one foot to the other. Maitimo shoves it back into the refrigerator and close the door. 'What is it?'

'I would rather talk in private,' he says. 'Can we go to your room?'

They go silently up to the attic. It is a large room that seems to remain perpetually dark, no matter how many lights they put in it. Mattresses, clothing, books, and loose sheets of music are scattered across the wooden floor, and the walls are plastered with posters and photographs arranged in a rather haphazard fashion.

Maitimo sits down on one of the mattresses and places his food on a nearby book. Tyelkormo sits down cross-legged opposite him and twists his hair about his finger, looking past Maitimo at a photograph of Amarië that Findaráto took in July.

Maitimo folds his hands under his chin and takes a deep breath. 'All right, Tyelkormo, what is it?'

Tyelkormo sighs and swallows hard, picking up a record lying beside him. He stares at it numbly for a few moments before turning to face Maitimo. 'There's this girl from school. I like her a lot, she's really funny and playful, but I think that she is falling in love with me. The thing is, I am not in love with her. Not anyways near it, in fact. She is a good friend to me, but I think that she wants me to be her lover, and I don't want that, but I don't want to loose her,' he gushes out at once, nearly incoherently, before falling into a brooding silence.

'Are you certain that you are not falling in love with her?' Maitimo says quickly.

He nods. 'I am certain. She is not…my type.'

Maitimo has a vague feeling that means she is not beautiful enough to catch Tyelkormo’s eye in a romantic way, so he nods silently.

'Tyelkormo,' he says finally, 'I think that you should continue your friendship the way that it has been going, and, if she does not want that, there is not much that you can do. Of course, you could always be wrong.'

Tyelkormo shrugs and half smiles. 'I suppose so.' He stands up. 'Well, I have to take Huan out. Good night, Russandol.'

'Good night, Turko,' Maitimo answers.

 

* * *

 

Maitimo’s bed is warm as he slides down under the covers next to Makalaurë. Makalaurë turns around when Maitimo touches his back and smiles at him in the semi-darkness. He yawns slightly and stretches against Maitimo, tucking his head under his chin. He is humming a quiet lullaby, and Maitimo lets himself sink into the peace of the moment.

''Timo?'

'Mmm?' Maitimo turns his head a little to look at Findekáno, who is lying on his mattress tangled up with Angaráto and Aikanáro. Their golden hair is gleaming madly against his dark tresses where the moonlight slips in through the window.

'Have you finished your research paper yet?'

'What?'

'The research paper that we are supposed to do for English, have you finished it?'

'No, Finde, I haven't.'

'Oh.' He smiles slightly. 'Neither have I.'

'I've finished,' Makalaurë sings without breaking his melody.

Maitimo draws his little brother back into his arms and gives him a squeeze to express his annoyance. 'Of course you have.’

Makalaurë smiles ever so slightly as he turns his face away, and Maitimo draw the blankets up to his chin and listens to his brother's song, the gentle breathing of his cousins, and the omnipresent rumble of cars in the distance.


End file.
